


The Graveyard

by alannalaleona



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Death, M/M, Neil Gaiman - Freeform, The Graveyard Book - Freeform, ghost!liam, ziam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:24:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1363930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alannalaleona/pseuds/alannalaleona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one knows what happens after death. Some say it's like dreaming, others say you go to heaven, and still others claim you just disappear. Liam dies in 1927 and wakes up as a ghost in a graveyard. After many years of getting used to being dead, life shows up in the graveyard. A young, orphaned child is rescued from certain death and Liam becomes his guardian. The dead must now raise the living.  Life after death does exist, and for Liam it's just beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man Grim

 

All was dark. Through a door, seemingly left ajar through negligence, wind whistled into a house. The gust twisted around the walls, causing papers to shuffle in the kitchen, innocently ruffling sheer curtains against the windows, and revealing, if one looked closely, a malevolent intent.  Through the window, a shadow could be seen if someone cared to look. However, this night, no one did.

  The man Grim blended easily into the shadows, unwelcome in the house.  The darkness seemed on his side, however, for it embraced and hid his slim form. In his hand, seemingly suspended in the black, a knife glinted red. They were a contrast, the man who faded into the gloom and the blade that seemed made to stand out. The instrument appeared happy in the man’s hand, reflecting its’ owner’s mood. The man Grim did not allow himself a smile, however. That he could save for when the job was done.

The man Grim first located the man of the house, swiftly tied him hand and foot, mouth gagged, and allowed him to watch. The woman, when he found her, he left in the kitchen, her heart’s blood seeping onto her once pristine floors. The girl he laid in her bed, her neck now adorned with rubies.  The man of the house was whimpering, so the man Grim replaced his watery tears with bloody ones.  Leaving his body prone on the floor, the man Grim crept around his masterpieces, careful to not disturb anything about his work. The man Grim paused on the landing of the stairs. He thought he heard scrabbling, but he focused his mind on the task at hand. One more, he thought, one more small death and he could smile. He would have finished the job. He felt his lips turn up at the thought, but quickly quashed the urge. There would be time after.

The man Grim’s Italian leather shoes, quiet like cat’s feet, carried him up the stairs. He turned to the attic, and climbed once more. He approached the crib like he thought a mother might, shuffling steps and hushed breaths. The man Grim held his breath as he looked down into the cradle only to find emptiness.

The man Grim stopped a scream of fury dead in his throat. That noise he had heard earlier. The baby must have been out of bed. His eyes widened with rage.  He snapped around so rapidly his knife smacked the crib and sliced a bar. Before it even clattered to the floor, the man Grim was hurtling down the staircase, wrath in his eyes. As he slipped out the door he muttered viciously under his breath, “Onemoreonemore, whereowherewherewheredidhego?” He stopped and straightened his back, his black tie, and adjusted his long trench coat. Calm once more, the man Grim walked down the road, his knife concealed in the coat. He was in no hurry, he told himself. After all, how far could a child that young go?

Up the hill and around the bend, a fog wrapped itself lazily around the child. He toddled along with it, fingers never quite able to reach or touch. Onward he marched on his unsteady little legs, blissfully unaware of the fate he had avoided by crawling out of his mother’s sight that night.

 

Liam was dead. That much was certain. He knew because he woke in a graveyard to an epitaph on a short slate stone that read,

  

William J. Payne

1906-1927

Beloved Brother and Son

Died of Influenza

 

When life did give him

Challenges to face

He scaled them all

Then fell with Grace

 

He hated it vehemently.  But he couldn’t stop looking at it, running his insubstantial fingers along the small, stubby stone. It was all he had left of his family, for they had not been buried near him. He wished he knew what happened to them. To Liam, it seemed only minutes he had been staring at the stone, perhaps hours, but years passed in this fashion.  He knew every detail of the stone. He imagined his family picking it for him over and over, his mother and his sisters crying. Leaving flowers.   _His_ stone.  It was the only thing that had ever really belonged to him. When it started to sink lower into the ground in what seemed mere minutes, he tried in vain to pull it back up. He sat, plotting to somehow, some way restore it to its former glory.

Liam stared at his ghostly hands sadly, brought them up to touch his face. He rubbed his hand over the slight beard he’d had when he died. He could never get rid of it. It would be stuck, with him, with his stone, for eternity. Suddenly Liam froze. He looked up. A young, dark haired child played in the soft grass in front of his headstone. Liam stared in wonder. The child looked up into his face with calm, trusting eyes. They were caramel with green flecks. Liam’s hand dropped. The child reached up and gripped his finger, smiling.

On the other side of the graveyard, the Council was having a meeting. Others were in the graveyard, and they had a Way to Do Things. Liam had not been present at any meetings of the yard, nor had he even been in contact with any of the other inhabitants, as they called themselves. The community had called a meeting to discuss the Poor Young Lad’s Plight.

The graveyard was an old one, where people were no longer buried. The Council had solved many problems over the years. This one would be no different. However the real argument was how it would be done. Arguments like that had spanned days. The man who had been buried first in the yard, Simon St. Cowell, addressed the crowd. “My dear people,” He began, “My friends. This young lad has been with us years.  His initial confusion has lasted much longer than others’ in the past. The general consensus is that we must help him!” Simon St. Cowell raised his fist into the air triumphantly, as was his way. Simon St. Cowell had been a Knight in England 1296.

[Simon St. Cowell

Born 1234 ~ Died 1307

 

Knight of Templar

 

Wrongly Murdered

For Defending

Friends ]

 

The man still wore a white tunic emblazoned with a cross, customary for the Knights of Templar, as it was what he was buried in. It gave the middle aged Knight the air of strength and grandfatherly wisdom.

 

“Well?” Called Simon St. Cowell enthusiastically, gesturing his arms above his head. “Does anyone have any ideas to assist the Young William?”

 

Suddenly the murmuring of the crowd turned to silence, which rarely happened in the graveyard. The inhabitants were, as a rule, rather mouthy. For mere moments, Simon St. Cowell was proud of the contemplation he had inspired before a rusty, cracking voice broke the silence. Simon St. Cowell spun in surprise.

 

“H-hello,” said the voice. A gasp of astonishment broke through the crowd. There was the man of the hour, the Young William J. Payne.  “Can someone help p-please?”

“My dear boy,” said Simon St. Cowell gently, “We are trying to do just that…” He trailed off, a look of wonder on his face. He suddenly seemed unable to continue.   Then, as one, the crowd saw the raggedy bundle in Young William’s arms. A plump little hand reached out of the tatters and gripped William J. Payne’s smallest finger tightly. 

William cooed down into the bundle, looking happy and proud. He turned to face the crowd, smile fading into a confused frown.  “H-hello? Can anyone help, please? I-I don’t know where I am.”

Simon St. Cowell seemed to recover somewhat from his shock and addressed the boy, voice shaking.  “Lad, you’d better tell us all that you remember.” He said. “Come- come sit.”

“Well…I died.” Stuttered the Young William, and thus began his story.


	2. The Intruder & The Guardian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man Grim follows the young child's trail to the graveyard. Can he be deterred by the people of the yard, only barely realizing they have a living child in their midst?

Before another word could be uttered, a rattling was heard throughout the yard. _Clang Clang Clang.  Clang clang clang._ The company of ghosts drifted toward the gate on the other side of the Young William’s headstone. _Clang clang clang. Clangclangclangclang. CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!_ The sounds continued, almost rhythmic, and the inhabitants could do nothing but stare in astonishment.

Without warning, three blurry shapes appeared in front of the council. They seemed to be made of static. Their images shifted from side to side rapidly, but with a glance the good folks of the yard instinctually knew what they were. They were the Recently Dead. None had seen such a thing before except for Simon St. Cowell, and even then, only once.  As the oldest of the graveyard, Simon St. Cowell took up his duty and approached the figures. “How,” He began kindly, stopping in front of them, “can we help?”

The figure in front now came into focus and snapped her attention to the Young William Payne.  A woman and, very obviously to anyone who had sight, the child’s mother. Her ebony hair matched dark tufts peeking from the bundle of tattered cloth, and her cocoa skin, pale now in death, would have once been like her son’s.  The other two were nothing more than flickers of grey, but they turned as one with the mother, echoing her movements.  _My baby, my baby. Please save my baby. He is trying to harm my baby!_  Her voice echoed, and each inhabitant of the graveyard could feel her urgency and pain as if it were their own. It reverberated deep within their beings. The longer the figure spoke, the clearer she became. The babe now sat up in Young William’s arms and smiled, reaching for his mother. The corners of her mouth turned up in return, but her eyes betrayed her, and tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please,” she implored, looking into the Young William’s eyes. “Please…I…help…protect...raise…”  Her figure sputtered in and out of focus. Her head whipped around impossibly fast, her eyes following something, no, some _one_ no one else could yet see.

Liam started. He stared back at the woman; her dark eyes were on him once more, filled with sorrow and, undeniably, hope.  His eyes clouded with tears, he whispered, “But...he’s alive. How can we…? How can I…?”

Simon St. Cowell whispered over Liam’s left shoulder, addressing the mother.  “Can you imagine? He’s living…We’re not…” His eyes closed.

 _Clang clang clang. Screeeeech._ The entirety of the yard knew that sound, all except the Young William Payne. That was the gate opening. Someone was in the Graveyard. The woman looked from Liam to Simon St. Cowell, panicked, then back to Liam again. There were more sounds from the gate, then muffled footsteps. The woman rushed in close to William. She whispered something no one else could hear. Liam nodded, his eyes turned down. The woman gave a sob and blinked out of the graveyard for the final time, taking the two grey figures with her.

For the second time that night, there was no sound in the graveyard. Then a figure padded into the midst of the Council. The man Grim sniffed the air, turning in a circle. The inhabitants began to mutter about the man; he was peculiar, they said. They barely saw him, they said, he was almost not there. The man Grim then leaned up into a young gypsy woman as she whispered about his eyes, "I can’t see soul in them," she gasped and put her hand over her mouth, looking rattled. Her hands traveled along her body, almost as though she was making sure it was still intact. She faded out of the circle dazedly, whispering , “Unholy, unholy…” Though the young gypsy woman had been buried a very long time and had begun to lose her mind, the inhabitants quieted. Her mutterings voiced what they all had been thinking. The air seemed stale and sour all at once; in a word, wrong. The man Grim’s eyes seemed to pierce through the darkness, and each felt more violated with every second. The people of the yard shifted, perturbed.  It was as if the man Grim could _see_ them, and they felt ill at ease, naked.

The man Grim paced the area, nostrils flaring, his eyes aflame. He paused right in front of the Young William and his new charge. For a moment it seemed they had been Seen, but his eyes remained unfocused, searching.

The Young William gathered the babe to his shoulder, held him close, and watched the man Grim warily. He was perched on the balls of his feet, ready to flee if necessary.  However, he needn’t have worried. When the Young William had agreed to be the Guardian of the child, the Graveyard accepted the child as its own. The graveyard now cradled the babe just as much as the Young William J. Payne did, affording him protection from the evil that sought him out.  

The man Grim snorted in consternation, sure he had missed something.  He had seen the child meander into the graveyard, of that he was certain. Now he merely needed to locate it.  The man Grim made his voice soft and gentle and began to call, “Dear one, oh dear one, dear one….Please come to me. I will send you home. With your family.  They’re all cuddled in close, it’s nearly perfect, and they just need you.”  The babe, to its credit, did not make a sound. The man Grim lowered his voice, coating it in milk and honey and cooed, “The last piece will not elude me. Not for long.” He proceeded to slink through the whole yard, the fine leather of his shoes once again silencing his footfalls.  However, with each turn, he rustled dry leaves into slithering snakes.  His long coat, dark and heavy, swirled against slate, granite, and limestone alike, and soft swishes resonated into the night until these sounds filled the graveyard. _ssssshhsssshhhslhoopssshshshshshshloop_.  Again and again, _ssssshhsssshhhslhoopssshshshshshshloop hsssssh._ These sounds reached all corners of the yard.   Likened to a lullaby, the small babe fell asleep to these echoes and slumbered through the night.  For years to come, when the child attempted to recall the day he had been adopted into the graveyard, this sound was all he was able to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Short chapter, kind of wrapping up that cliffhanger. Sorry I haven't posted in so long, I was moving. But now I have extra time to work on the fic! At the very least, you should be getting a new installment every two weeks. I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> This is based on "The Graveyard Book" by Neil Gaiman, and the general story line is not my intellectual property.  
> Disclaimer: Not everything in this is going to be accurate. Like old timey speech. You're too lazy to read it, I'm too lazy to write it. OOC Simon Cowell. Zayn's mom isn't white. blablabla.  
> Thank you! Please keep reading. :)  
> Alanna
> 
> Author's blog: toboldlyfaux.tumblr.com  
> Beta's blog: ziamlegend.tumblr.com


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